Ramps have ridden the wave of foodie obsession. In years past, from the moment the green bundles made their season debut in Instagram feeds, fanatics and curious innocents would rush to the market to purchase their share. The next few days would see post after post of ramp-infused everything. I'll own it: I played the game. I bought my little ramps, priced rather preciously at $5 for a tiny fistful. I folded them into butter, plopped them on pizza, even grilled them whole and served them with romesco sauce, fancy-style. It was all a bit exhausting.

This year, it seems, the craze has died down. Ramps were at the market last week, but if my memory is correct, they were priced slightly cheaper than last year, something that never happens. There also weren't hoards of people clustering to snatch them all up; in fact, there was barely a peep about them. I ran into a couple of friends, and when I went to purchase a bundle or two, they frowned: why would you buy those?

Fair enough. They're fancy wild onions, not truffles. Point taken. But here's what I like about them: they're like the green part of scallions on steroids. Super grassy, with a distinctly wild bite. A little goes a long way. And because the leaves are so delicate, they don't need much -- if any -- cooking before they get added to whatever you're making. And what you're making, if you're with me, is brunch.

In the case of last Sunday's brunch, it was a basic biscuit egg sandwich. Ramps rescued the thing from being purely a bald-faced attempt at consuming as much butter as possible and calling it a meal. Now everything was green! Sort of. But it was more than sort of tasty. And come Sunday, it'll probably grace our brunch table yet again. 'Tis the season; it doesn't last for long.

Ramps 'n' Eggs Biscuit SandwichesServes 4

The biscuit recipe is adapted from my go-to, Marion Cunningham's cream biscuits. There's no butter in the dough itself; it just gets brushed on (liberally!) before baking. Here, I subbed out half the cream for yogurt, which worked really well.

In a separate bowl, combine cream and yogurt; stir until smooth. Pour yogurt-cream mixture into flour mixture, and use a fork to start combining the mixture. When most of the flour has been incorporated, dump the mixture onto a clean work surface, and use your hands (and a light touch) to bring it together. Knead the dough gently for about 30 seconds, until it comes together fully.

Shape dough into a mass (round if you want pie-slice biscuits; square if you want square biscuits), and slice into about 9 pieces.

Brush biscuits with melted butter on all sides; set buttered biscuits 2 inches apart onto an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for about 15 minutes, until browned and puffy.

Once you've taken the biscuits out of the oven, heat 1 tablespoon of butter in a small saute pan over medium heat. When butter foams, add the sliced white bottoms of all the ramps. Cook for about 3 minutes, stirring occasionally, until ramps are fragrant and softened. Meanwhile, combine green ramp tops and eggs in a mixing bowl. Whisk to combine; season with salt and pepper. Add remaining butter to the pan, then add egg mixture. Use one hand to vigorously shake the pan back and forth; hold a fork in the other hand, and make continuous mixing motions with the fork, to break up the eggs and create a light, custardy texture in your scramble. When eggs are cooked to your liking, remove from the heat. Serve immediately, on or alongside hot biscuits.

I think I speak for all of us on the east coast when I say, FINALLY. Winter can see its sorry self out the door for another nine months or so. I'm preoccupied by my true loves, the asparagus that have arrived,* and I can't bring myself to talk about much of anything else.

*As I'm writing this, asparagus season hasn't really started here in Washington.** Usually I'm a stickler, waiting with embarrassing impatience for local farmers to harvest their crop. But this year, weeks after I ran out of creative uses for beets and kale, the asparagus still hadn't made their debut at my farmers' market, and yet there they were on display at the Whole Foods, skinny little bundles of asparagus from California. Are they as good as the ones grown nearby? Not even close. But I figure since all my citrus comes from the west coast anyway, I may as well start spring vegetable season a bit early, too.

This is a great recipe for those transitional weeks, when the produce isn't gleaming and perfect. The WF asparagus had a longer woody stem than I'm used to, so I removed those and sliced the rest of the spear on the bias into short coins. Over medium-high heat, I sauteed them rather unevenly in plenty of butter, so some just barely cooked through while others got nicely browned and crisp.

There's pretty much nothing you can do to mess up a good slice of bread slathered with ricotta. Adding browned, buttery asparagus: not an exception. To keep things bright, I ran to a flavor combination that I think I originally saw in the Zuni Cafe cookbook: pistachios, orange, mint.

If you time things right, you'll catch the tail end of citrus season: these toasts really benefit from the zest of a good orange (or blood orange) and the juice from a meyer lemon.

The weather's still bouncing back and forth here, one day as beautiful as it gets and the next cold and rainy. Spring isn't predictable, but there's one thing I can guarantee the coming weeks will bring: plenty more asparagus recipes.

** In the end, it took me almost a week to get this post live, and as of right this very instant, ASPARAGUS SEASON HAS STARTED!!

Asparagus Toasts with Pistachios and MintMakes 4 toasts

1 small bunch (about 8 spears) asparagus, rinsed and trimmed, sliced into 2-inch pieces2 tablespoons unsalted buttersalt and pepper1/4 teaspoon chile flakes (I like Turkish chile)zest of half an orange or one lemon1/3 cup good ricotta4 half-slices of very good crusty bread (I like sourdough)leaves from one sprig of mint, rinsed and torn into small pieces2 tablespoons salted (shelled) pistachios, coarsely choppedsmall wedge of lemon

Heat butter in a small saute pan over medium heat. When butter foams, add asparagus and a pinch each of salt and pepper. Add turkish chile and citrus zest. Cook, tossing pan occasionally to prevent sticking, until asparagus are on the crunchy side of tender and golden brown in spots; I found that this took around 3-4 minutes for stalks on the thin side. Set pan aside and allow asparagus to cool slightly.

Toast bread in a toaster or hot oven to your liking. (I'm a golden girl.) Spread a thick layer of ricotta onto the toast slices, and divide the asparagus spears evenly among the toasts. Finish with a pinch of mint, a sprinkle of pistachios, and a squeeze of lemon. Serve immediately.

Since this pregnancy, I've taken a rather uncanny - you might call it obsessive - interest in apples. I buy them by the bushel, which is silly when you consider that we're still only two of us (excluding the wee thing) and my fridge isn't even regulation-size. But it's true: I buy all of the apples, often seconds, still: there are never enough.

I've been a Honeycrisp girl for the past couple years, but this fall, I think I overdid it. Now I've taken up with the Mutsus and the Jonagolds: they're crisp, sweet, and still plenty tart. I'm hooked.

I hauled home a batch last Sunday without remembering the drawer full of apples in the fridge, an occurrence not uncommon for me these days. And if you're with me - and I'm thinking you are, because, well, you're here - you know that the most logical solution to this so-called problem is to spend a bit of time baking up a batch of apple-cheddar scones. Of course.

The idea came to me before I walked in the front door, actually. Back in spring, my neighbor and I planted a slew of herbs out front. We've been pretty good about using the chives, thyme, and basil, but our poor sage plant has gone so underused that at this point, it's overflowing everywhere, practically begging to be picked. I plucked a few sprigs, mentally planning for Spaetzle with Sage Butter and Hazelnuts (a fantastic recipe, btw) and Mrs. Larkin's Butternut Sage Scones (another keeper). But then I remembered that a couple versions of apple-cheddar scones/biscuits had been lingering in my recipe file for a wee bit too long. It was time to give them a spin.

Of course, I had to tinker. First, I was out of cream. Second, I'd picked up some beautiful rye flour at the market that I wanted to incorporate. Third, I didn't want to dirty the food processor or mixer, and I didn't see any reason why I'd need to. And fourth, I wanted little baby scones that I could freeze and bake off as needed. So it was that these little hybrids were born. They require no special equipment, and they come together fairly efficiently. All in all, they're a great addition to the breakfast/brunch repertoire. You know, for those days long in the future when I'll be preparing brunch again.

Thanks to the addition of some rye flour, these scones have craggy tops and wholesome texture. If you don't have rye flour, whole wheat will work well, too. Same is true for the dairy: whole milk, half-and-half, and cream will all work well. I wouldn't put my money on skim, though.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F and line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

Peel and core apples and cut into a 3/4-inch dice. No need to be precise; mixed textures can be nice. (I'm done with the rhyming, promise.)

Spread apples on the lined baking sheet and bake for about 20 minutes, until dried out and about halfway baked. Cool completely (on a rack or, even faster, in the fridge). Leave oven on.

In a large bowl, combine flours, sugar, baking powder, salt, pepper, and chopped sage. Toss with a fork to fully combine. Add cubed butter and use a fork, pastry blender, or your fingers to cut butter into flour until mixture forms pea-sized crumbs and no "dry" flour remains. Add cheese; stir to incorporate.

In a small bowl, whisk together egg and milk. Add to dry ingredients along with baked, cooled apple chunks, and stir until dough comes together. Do not overmix.

For large scones, dump dough out onto a floured surface, and gently collect dough into a large ball. Use your palms to pat dough into a disk one inch high, then slice into 6-8 wedges. Set scones on the parchment paper-lined sheet, leaving about one inch between scones.

For smaller scones, halve dough, and assemble and cut each half as described above. You should end up with 12-16 smaller wedges. Set scones onto the baking sheet.

Stick a small sage leaf face-up on the top of each scone. Brush tops with milk/cream. Bake 30 minutes for larger scones, 20-25 minutes for smaller scones, until cooked through and golden brown at the edges. Set on a rack to cool for at least 5 minutes; serve warm or at room temperature.

These scones are best right out of the oven, and ideally eaten the day they're made. That said, they can be frozen unbrushed/unbaked on a lined cookie sheet; once fully frozen, transfer them to a freezer bag for storage. To bake, no need to thaw; just brush with milk/cream, and add 2 minutes or so to the baking time.

It must have been 2005 when I first fell for shakshuka, the Israeli dish of eggs fry-poached in a spicy, oniony tomato sauce. For a few years, I obsessively sought it out at restaurants; eventually, I taught myself to make it at home. There are a few places - like the kitschily named but legit Dr. Shakshuka, in Tel Aviv - that make it consistently well: their whites are always set, their yolks perfectly runny, every time. Back when I lived in Jerusalem, there was a little cafe near my apartment that I loved, but that had a problem with runny whites in their shakshuka. It was either that or a hard yolk, and I wanted neither - so I learned to ask for my eggs "mikushkashot" - scrambled. They happily obliged, and I wound up with soft-scrambled eggs in that same punchy sauce. Don't tell anyone, but I've always liked my invented version better.

At the time, I thought shakshuka was something unique that you could only find in Israel. I should have known better: nearly every wonderful "Israeli" food, from falafel to shawarma to hummus to labneh, was cribbed from another Middle Eastern culture. Shakshuka is no exception; it's originally from North Africa, or so I understand from Google. And now, of course, it's on trendy menus all over the country. Shakshuka has hit the big time.

Israel isn't the only copycat. It seems every culture has its own name and nuanced method for cooking eggs in tomatoes. There's the classic Eggs in Purgatory (...is it a classic? I did a bit of poking for historical origins of the dish, and aside from finding several mentions of "Catholic" and "uovo in purgatorio," I came up short), and some folks have added more chile and renamed the dish Eggs in Hell. But the version I've come to love more recently is called Menemen, hailing from Turkey, which is basically the hacked-up version of shakshuka I've been ordering and making all along. Apparently, I didn't invent it after all. But all the good cooks steal ideas from each other, so the copycat badge is one I'm proud to wear.

Like shakshuka, menemen is a dish you'll like more if you make it your own. My brother and the internet have taught me that some like their menemen chunky - with defined pieces of egg, tomato, and pepper - and others like the dish reduced to almost a custard, where everything sort of blends together. I'm not quite at the point where I can control exactly how it comes out, but I tend to make it - and like it - somewhere between the two extremes.

According to my bro, the best menemen has a good mix of tomato and pepper, and plenty of egg - which, in Turkey, doesn't always happen; eggs are more expensive than vegetables. His favorite menemen also keeps the tomatoes on the slightly liquidy side, which I also enjoy (though it makes cooking the eggs a bit more challenging). And - shock! - he likes his menemen with beyaz peynir, which is like a mild feta, or tulum, a grassy Turkish goat's milk cheese. And plenty of pul biber, a Turkish condiment of chile and salt.

So that's the fully-loaded version. But I tend to keep things pretty simple: onion, tomato, pepper, some chile, eggs. A hunk of good bread to sop everything up. That's a happy morning in my book.

I broke the news to my brother that I'd be posting about menemen, and he said he'd try to get me a menemen set the next time he goes to Turkey. Who knew there were menemen sets? Turns out, because you're supposed to serve it in the same dish in which you cook it, there are beautiful stove-safe bowls - made of hand-formed metal - specifically for menemen. I'd love to get my hands on one of those eventually, but for now, a good old skillet and bowl do the trick.

What's your favorite way to eat eggs and tomatoes? You know you have one - now share it.

Menemen - Turkish Eggs in Tomatoes and Peppers Serves 2

Like all egg dishes, menemen is deeply personal. I like my peppers to retain some crunch; I prefer my tomatoes a little runny, even though it makes cooking the eggs harder; and I like my eggs less custardy, with some defined curds. With both personal preferences and stoves so idiosyncratic, it seemed silly to offer cooking times. I've done it anyway, but more important are the signs that my menemen is ready for the next step. Those trump cooking times here. If you want your peppers/tomatoes/eggs firmer or softer, then by all means. Make this dish your own.

Add the olive oil to a large frying pan (stainless steel, cast iron, and non-stick all work) and set over medium heat. Add the onion and peppers with a pinch of salt. Give a few tosses, and cook until onions take on light color and everything smells fragrant but peppers are still somewhat firm, about 3 minutes.

Add tomatoes, another pinch of salt, and the pepper. Give a good stir, and let them cook until much, but not all, of their liquid has evaporated and they look saucy, about 4 minutes more.

Lightly beat eggs with a pinch of salt in a small bowl. When tomato mixture is ready, add eggs all at once, and use a wooden or silicone spatula to gently fold them into the tomato mixture. Because I like curds in my menemen, I take care to fold them only occasionally; if you prefer a more uniform dish, you can stir it slowly but continuously. Either way, you're looking for the whites to almost cook through. They should be basically opaque when you plate the menemen, as they'll continue cooking for a few seconds off the heat, but not much. If you prefer very runny eggs (and the uncooked whites don't bother you), you can add the eggs, stir a few times to incorporate, and transfer the menemen to bowls almost immediately. Your choice.

Serve menemen with any of your preferred fix-ins, and crusty bread on the side.